


LETTRE DE MARQUE, LETTRE DE COURSE A Tale of the 327th MSG, The Scurvy Dogs

by triolamj



Category: SFMC, Star Trek, Starfleet Marines - Fandom
Genre: SFMC - Freeform, Starfleet Marines, USS Corsair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25632262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triolamj/pseuds/triolamj
Summary: A short-short story of the 327th Marine Strike Group of the USS Corsair and their fight against Klingon raiders and Orion Syndicate pirates.





	LETTRE DE MARQUE, LETTRE DE COURSE A Tale of the 327th MSG, The Scurvy Dogs

  
LETTRE DE MARQUE, LETTRE DE COURSE  
A Tale of the 327th MSG, The Scurvy Dogs  
  
by   
  
COL Max "Mariachi" Triola (SCC 67845)  
302nd Marine Strike Group, USS Zavala

(April 2019)

Letter of Marque and Reprisal (noun) . . . (It) would include permission to cross an international border to effect a reprisal (take some action in response to an attack or injury) and was authorized by an issuing jurisdiction to conduct those reprisal operations outside its borders . . . 

"You may be wondering why I have gathered you here today", the pirate captain intoned. "I wish to introduce you to my good friend Madame Guillotine". The tall, bald, and imposing Orion male in a sleeveless silk vest and striped silk pantaloons gestured dramatically to the tall steel construction with its wickedly sharp blade. He slowly walked down the line of bound and gagged Klingon raiders kneeling before him, shaking his head slowly from side to side, his great latinum hoop earrings swinging in unison. "Le Madame has only one purpose in life, to bestow a last lingering kiss to the neck of the Orion Syndicate's enemies and . . .", his green face darkened and his dark eyes narrowed, "you, gentlebeings, have encroached on our territory and our livelihood". His expression hardened even more. "If we allow this faux pas of yours to go unpunished, others may attempt to take advantage of our usual laissez faire attitude. We can't allow that ... no, no, no. So an example must be made, a line must be drawn, and a demonstration of our steely resolve is in order". He slapped the flat of his razor-sharp cutlass against the palm of his hand. The raiders almost groaned. The Klingon outlaws had steeled themselves to a dishonorable death, bound hand and foot like a targ being readied for gutting. Their eyes followed the light reflecting off the cutlass' wicked edge. Flash, flash, back and forth, flash, flash, back and forth, in an almost hypnotic way. "Number One, the time is come. We must send our guests down the stony road to Grethor and the Black Barge".  
  
"Aye, aye, Captain", the adorable First Officer chimed in. She hitched up her armored corset and began walking down the line of thugs. She had already picked out a victim, the scrawny new chef on the Klingon ship and now she dragged him across the metal floor by his warrior's braid. When she reached the foot of the guillotine, two Orion males wearing purple berets grabbed him up and forced his head into the base of the killing machine. After a few minutes' struggle the chef's ugly head appeared through the hole in front of its yoke and he grew still and pale.

"Now, Number One!" The First Officer pressed the huge button on the side of the guillotine with the palm of her hand. The heavy blade whooshed downward between the two columns, sliced through its victim's neck, and thudded into the base. The head rolled forward into a huge silver bowl, throwing out a spray of blood behind it like a pink comet's tail. During the drama the Orion captain had kept his gaze fixed on the faces of the Klingons. The shock and awe reflected there was gratifying given the amount of planning that had gone into this little charade. A few seconds after the blade dropped, the Klingons began to faceplant on the deck.

"Merde! I thought the anesthezine would never kick in. Eddie, see if there are any more Romulans in this motley crew besides the chef". The taller of the two crewmen took the captain's cutlass and walked down the line of unconscious villains and nicked each one of them on the cheek, just enough to draw a few droplets of blood. "All Klingons so fair, general. Wait! I spoke too soon. Green for Romulan here."

At the same time Number One was moving the steel bowl away from the base of the trick guillotine. Then she freed the "victim's" real head from its hidden compartment. "The edge of the blade clipped him pretty good, enough to draw blood. Green Romulan blood at that. Two Romulan infiltrators out of a crew of twelve pirates. Starfleet Intelligence was right".

"Well, there's always a first time. God, these chromataphores make me itch!" the fake Orion exclaimed. "Let's get the rest of the crew in here and load the real Klingons onto their lifeboats while they're still knocked out. We'll set the auto-pilots for Deep Space Nine and send them on their way. We'll throw the Romulans in the brig for now until we get back to Deep Space Nine ourselves. Number One, folks, let's get this clown make-up off. Tomorrow we'll give the Orions a taste of their own medicine as well".

  
Two days later the tall, imposing chieftain of the Klingon pirates paced the edge of the cargo pit. Long iron-grey hair fringed his bald, scarred pate. His warrior's leathers showed a thousand nicks, cuts, burns, and bloodstains. His adorable First Officer wore similar battle-scarred leathers except for a scenic keyhole at the neckline. A painstick in her hand threw off tiny sparks as she idly whipped it back and forth in front of her.

"You grass-colored abominations may be wondering why I haven't just slit your throats and cycled you out the airlock". A wickedly sharp grin spread across his face. "I have a sense of humor, a rare thing among my people, and I feel like indulging in a jest of ironic proportions. I happen to know about a thriving little farming planet that still practices slavery. You'll make the perfect peons for them, chopping cotton, slopping hogs, and shoveling manure piles. They'll burn away those over-fed bellies of yours in no time". The Klingon smiled, "Ah, the auctioneer's rapid fire patter, the smack of his hammer saying "Sold!", the crack of the new owner's whip as they introduce themselves to their new property. The clinking of latinum in my hand at the end of the day. Just be glad", he sneered, "because I know of a backward planet where we'd be selling you by the kilo!" The captives eyes went wide with a deep primal fear, the prey's fear of the predator's bite. The chieftain gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Long pig, they call it. The other other white meat!" At about that moment the Orion slavers, with looks of horror on their faces, began collapsing to the floor of the pit as if they had fainted ... or been stunned by the electrical wires running beneath the floor. "Doc, do any of this batch scan as Romulans?" the general asked after he had taken out his false filed-down teeth.

"Just one. He's using the same kind of chromataphore makeup that we do. Eddie, the one on the right, just by your foot: check right behind his ear and see if he has a transmitter embedded there. He does? Damn, then his handlers probably know we're on to them, Ed".

"Well, it's to be expected. Hopefully, they'll blame the Klingons, like we wanted the Klingons to blame the Orions. Qapla! Number One. Let's bundle this load of scalawags into their escape pods and stow them on the Corsair". 

After the last escape pod was transported, the general plunked himself down in the Klingon captain's command chair, his fake wig removed and a Starfleet combadge pinned to his leather jacket. "We've got the Orion ship in tow and Eddie is back on board to captain the Corsair. You and I and the Scurvy Dogs can crew this flea-bitten excuse for a Bird of Prey, Number One. Not every general or admiral gets the chance to fly one of these junkpiles, let alone take one as a prize. I'm no Kirk and this is no Bounty ... but I'll take the win. Messieurs, mesdames, attendez moi! I claim this scow on behalf of the Starfleet Marine Corps and rename her "Les Bon Temps" ". The Scurvy Dogs cheered and laughed knowing what would come next. "Helmsman, signal the Corsair to proceed to Deep Space Nine at warp 6, standard course, and we'll follow. Laissez Bon Temps ... Roulez!

  
  
The End

Author's Note: The concept of this story was basically "fighting fire with fire". Who in Starfleet would the Commander of Starfleet or the Commandant of Marines unleash on any future pirates daring to prey on the small planets scattered along the thin edge of the Federation? The Scurvy Dogs, of course! Regarding "letters of marque": These letters actually existed and were issued by a government to a privateer or pirate, giving them and their crew carte blanche to raid and plunder any ship or settlement flying an enemy government's flag. Jean LaFitte was one of those privateers and pirates who received a letter of marque to operate against the Spanish, the English, and Mexico. His nickname of "The Corsair" comes from the phrase "Lettre de Course". He even had the distinction of owning a letter of marque from a non-existent country ... or maybe a not-yet existent country! 

I debated what I should name the captured Bird of Prey. Toward the end I considered the HMS C.P.A. in an homage to Monty Python's short film "The Crimson Permanent Assurance" but decided to continue with the French theme started with Madame Guillotine. The idea of Madame Guillotine was borrowed from the ending sequence of the Broadway musical "The Scarlet Pimpernel" and the classic movie thriller "Two On a Guillotine" with Connie Stevens and Dean Jones. A case of what is old is new again.


End file.
